


(It Ain't) Over Easy

by ChubbyHornedEquine



Series: Waffle Omens [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Crack, First Meetings, Fluff, Just a sprinkling, M/M, Meet-Cute, Waffle House, because its me, but you've met my other works, have you MET me, ive managed to slip in one truly vague reference to The Omen and i'm not remotely sorry, just the tiniest bit of angst, probably not, romcom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:29:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25342495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChubbyHornedEquine/pseuds/ChubbyHornedEquine
Summary: Imagine for a moment, if you will, a Waffle House. Apparently they don’t exist in Britain. I don’t know, I’ve never been to Britain. I’ve also never been to a Waffle House, they may not be real. This is to say, there’s a hook by the door, should you need to hang up any and all disbelief before entering TheTwilightWaffle Zone.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Warlock Dowling & Adam Young
Series: Waffle Omens [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1940332
Comments: 123
Kudos: 240
Collections: Ixnael’s Recommendations, Ixnael’s SFW corner, Our Own Side





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Based on that one relationship reddit thing that was floating around twitter for a while: https://twitter.com/JakeMHS/status/1260025788759326720/photo/1  
> A bunch of us in the gomens party house were like, how do we tell this person their boyfriend is in a enemies-to-lovers slow burn with the cook? Which of course we then applied to the ineffables. A lot of encouraging and zero sense of self control later, here we are.  
> Just something for shits and subsequent giggles while I make some headway on my longer works.  
> Enjoy! <3  
> (The second half will be posted Sunday.)

Madame Tracy had known Aziraphale for going on fifteen years now. They met at school, both being "non-traditional" students in that they were in their mid-thirties and sitting in Comm 101 surrounded by eighteen year olds. They hit it off rather quickly and their classmates were quick to dub them the grandparents. Aziraphale always pointed out that they were only a decade and some change older, truly it wasn't _that_ bad, and Tracy would laugh and promise to bake cookies for the next class.

Even though their majors took them down different paths, they remained fast friends. (They both had started in education but Tracy couldn't stand the red tape and so shifted to interior design but the late hours in the studio weren't to her liking either and so eventually she wound up in theatre. Her focus was costume design but every so often, mostly when they needed to type cast a mother or a kindly aunt or a grandmother, she would grace the stage.) They often studied for their core classes together, attended the few on-campus events that weren't paint parties or truly tragic stand up routines, and often went out for lunch dates.

When Aziraphale started teaching at Tadfield High School and Tracy took on a position at the community center running an outreach program through theatre (and freelancing for the occasional production here or there) their schedules rarely synced up. Fortunately, Aziraphale had terrible insomnia and Madame Tracy claimed to do her best designing after midnight. Soon their lunch dates became 10 pm grading sessions, midnight fabric swatch sorting, and 2 am tarot readings and gossip sessions. The only place that was open for business the same hours their brains seemed to be, was the local Waffle House.

Aziraphale was quite possibly the kindest person Tracy had ever met. He was patient, understanding, willing to sit and discuss any problem at length. He was the living embodiment of "wouldn't hurt a fly". She'd seen some of the young ones, the less kind ones, at school try to goad him on, mocking him for his fashion sense, his way of being, and he was always quick to smile in return (genuinely, at that!) and wish them a good day. She had never, in the fifteen years she'd known him, seen him lose his temper with another person.

Until the Waffle House.

It was a Friday night, a little after one a.m., when they pulled into the parking lot. Aziraphale recognized a few of his students huddled in a booth and ventured over to say hello while Tracy grabbed them their own. She looked over the menu, already half determined to let Azirpahale order for her so she could focus on coming up with a solid color theme for the community theatre's production of Much Ado.

Aziraphale came up to their table but before sitting he leaned over to catch the eye of another teen sitting at the counter by himself, "Oh hello, Warlock, I almost didn't see you there."

"Hey, Mr. Fell."

"What is it with you and your peers? It's well after 1 in the morning, what are you all doing here?"

Tracy shook her head because she knew the answer Aziraphale was going to get and knew just how surprised he would be to get it.

"We could say the same to you, y'know."

"Oh! Well..." he pulled at his waistcoat, "I'll have you know I have insomnia."

Warlock snorted, "Okay, Mr. Fell. Well my muse will only speak to me through the murky waters of Waffle House hot cocoa and the best hot cocoa is made after ten p.m. soooo..."

"I will leave you to it, my dear boy."

Finally he settled into the seat opposite Tracy and she shoved her menu at him. "Pick something for me, love. I can't focus on the words."

"Sweet or savory?"

"I don't know, sweet. Savory. Both."

"I see."

She pulled the salt and pepper shakers over to her, twirling them around one another on the table, "I just can't seem to come up with a solid theme for this show. Doesn't help of course, the director has no _concept_ . Why, I'd even settle for something awful, cowboys on mars, _something_ to work with."

"Have you done that?" Aziraphale asked, peering over his menu. "Shakespeare on Mars?"

"Oh love, I've done it all."

"Hey folks," the server slid two glasses of water on to their table, "you ready to order or you need some more time?"

Tracy moved her reading glasses from her chest to her face, squinting at the young woman's name tag.

"Anathema! What a beautiful name. I've put my fate in my friend's hands."

Anathema turned to Aziraphale, "And so?"

"Well I think, Tracy, you would enjoy the chocolate chip waffles and a side of bacon."

She nodded, "You're right."

"And I will have a pecan waffle and a side of eggs, just a little runny, please, I rather like them that way."

"Sure," Anathema said, not bothering with a notepad. "Any coffee or tea?"

"Tea," Tracy said.

"You know one of my students recommended the hot chocolate, so I think I'll try that."

"It's really good, Mr. Fell!" Warlock yelled over from the counter without turning around.

"Alright, you got it." Anathema said as she gathered their menus.

Still unable to come up with a single idea for her costumes, Tracy slid the salt and pepper shakes aside. "So," she said, "what ever happened to that young man you were seeing?"

"Tracy, _please_. First of all, he was not a young man, don't say it that way, it sounds scandalous. He was our age!"

She raised an eyebrow at him and pursed her lips, "I'm young."

"And secondly, we weren’t 'seeing' each other. We were..."

"Azi, as endearing as it is that you think so, no one ‘courts’ anymore.”

"Talking. Via the," he gestured vaguely to his hip, where an incredibly outdated cell phone case sat clipped to his belt, "instant messaging."

"I'm noticing quite a bit of past tense."

"Yes, well, did you know you could send _photos_ through these messages?"

"Yes, love, everyone knows tha--oooh,” her face split into a wide grin. “He didn't!"

"I'm now _more_ concerned that you know exactly what I'm referencing and I haven't said much at all."

Tracy just shrugged.

Anathema returned, setting their drinks down and disappeared in a flurry of skirts.

"I'm surprised you could see anything on that tiny little flip phone of yours," Tracy said.

Aziraphale picked up his hot chocolate, peering conspiratorially over the whipped cream, "There wasn't much to see, my dear."

She laughed aloud, gaining more than a couple looks from people at the counter. For as prim and proper and, well, uptight as Aziraphale may seem, he certainly had his moments of delicious, petty snark.

And it continued on like that. It was always easy to talk to Aziraphale. To laugh with him. Tracy had never known anyone who made her feel so safe and comfortable.

Anathema returned, setting their plates down.

Aziraphale was already settling his napkin in his lap when he looked down at his plate. "Oh..."

"Something wrong?" Anathema asked.

"Oh it's nothing, really. I had asked for them to be just a little runny, but that's alright."

"I can take them back if you--"

"No, no, that's alright I don't want to be a bother."

"Well if not what you wanted--"

"It's really not a problem, there's always next time."

"Oi," someone called from the other side of the counter, "what's going on?"

He was wearing a black apron and a cap and...sunglasses. Inside. Tracy realized right away he was the cook. [She wondered, briefly, how he managed to keep his glasses grease-spatter-free.]

"I said a little runny,” Anathema said with a shrug.

"Oh it's not _runny_ enough?"

Aziraphale shook his head, "No, it's fine, really."

The cook came around the counter, "Noooo no no no, we sure aim to please." He snatched up Aziraphale's plate, "Let me take care of that for you."

"Well, if-if you'd be so kind."

Tracy glanced from Aziraphale's smiling face to the downright grimace on the cook's face. She took in Anathema’s raised brows and even the teen at the counter Aziraphale had spoken to was turned around, looking over his shoulder. 

Oh dear.

Aziraphale was still smiling.

The cook was still frowning.

Oh no.

The problem with Aziraphale, if it could be considered one, was that he saw the absolute best in everyone. He spoke his mind and told the truth and so he expected the same from everyone else. If someone said they were fine, even if he suspected they weren’t, he wouldn’t push it, trusting they would ask for help if and when they needed it. (Forgetting, of course, how difficult doing that can be.) If someone said they loved his gift of tartan socks then he smiled and wiggled at a job well done. And if a cook with murder in his eyes said they would be happy to re-make his order, he believed that to be true.

“Great,” the cook said through gritted teeth.

“Wonderful!”

The entire diner had fallen completely silent, not that Aziraphale seemed to notice, humming a little tune as he sipped his chocolate.

“You know my dear, this really is quite good.”

Tracy reached over the table and placed her hands on his. She opened her mouth, closed it again, hummed a bit and finally settled on, “Azi, love, you do know you've upset the cook?”

“Oh nonsense! I did say he needn't bother, he insisted!”

“Yes, that's...true, but--”

“Why would he insist if he didn't want to?”

Tracy patted his hand and sat back as she tried to come up with a casual way of knocking Aziraphale's food to the floor when it arrived because there was simply no way the cook hadn't done _something_ to it.

It turned out, she needn't worry as the cook came back, grin _wide_ and, to be honest, a mite terrifying, and set, with a flourish, Aziraphale's plate down.

Aziraphale blinked down at it, the cook stood hands on his hips, positively bursting with a self-satisfied aura. She had to admit it was a little funny. Only she didn't suspect that there was a plate behind the counter of what aziraphale had _actually_ asked for which gave her cause for concern.

Tracy watched her friend's brow remain a bit furrowed as he cleared his throat and looked up at the cook. "I think you have the wrong table, my dear."

It's an interesting feeling, experiencing your entire body and soul clench inward, all of your breath just whisping right out of your lungs. Tracy couldn't say it was something she cared for.

Her gaze dragged from her friend over to the cook, who was still...grinning.

"Nope," he said, popping the 'p'. "This is yours. Cheers."

“These are...scrambled.”

“Uh huh.”

A pause.

Then.

"I'm starting to think you're, well, messing with me."

The teen at the counter barely caught his laugh in time.

The cook put a hand to his chest dramatically, “What? Me? You're a valued customer. Is this not what you wanted?”

“No! I--” He turned in his seat a bit, “you know I asked for a little runny.”

The cook leaned forward, putting his face mere inches above the plate, "Hmm. And these are not runny."

"Most decidedly not."

He snapped up right, "Well I'll just remake them. Again. Shall I?"

"I--," Aziraphale huffed, finally starting to get a bit flustered, and looked to Tracy. He took a deep breath and let it out slow, "No. This is fine. Scrambled is fine."

He reached for his fork but the cook had already stolen the plate away once more, "Just a tick, _dear_ ," he said, and disappeared behind the counter.

Aziraphale was upset now, tapping his finger against the table top.

“Maybe we should go,” Tracy said softly.

“No. He said he was going to do it right this time. I have to give him the benefit of doubt.”

“Love…”

“Hey, Mr. Fell,” the teen from the counter said.

“Yes, Warlock?”

“I just...Crowley's just havin a lark, I wouldn't take it too seriously. He's really nice once you get to know him, swear.”

“I don't appreciate being mocked,” Aziraphale said with a huff.

Warlock's phone chimed. He looked down at it and then turned in his seat towards the other side of the diner. Tracy followed his gaze to see him shrugging emphatically at the group of teens down in the booth, who seemed pretty riled up themselves.

Minutes ticked by.

Aziraphale picked up his mug, set it back down without taking a sip. He drummed his fingers along the table top. Fiddled with his cufflinks.

And then, the cook, this Crowley, reappeared. He held the plate high, high enough that from their seated positions Tracy couldn't see what was on it but she knew with a deep, deep sinking of her soul, that kind of profound, heavy resignation that comes following the realization of your insignificance in the universe, that the eggs were not runny.

The eggs would never be runny.


	2. Chapter 2

The eggs-in-a-basket bounced off the back of the cook's head. The little piece of toast then went flying off to land on the counter. Aziraphale had about ten seconds to bask in his aim before the gravity of the situation hit him as Crowley spun around on his heel, whipping his glasses off.

He then had about three seconds to process that he hadn't yet seen the cook, in the last three weeks they'd been having this fight, without his glasses and he hadn't realized how honey-brown his eyes were.

Then Crowley was on him.

*

After that first awful evening, Aziraphale and Tracy left after the cook carefully and delicately placed a plate of hard boiled eggs in front of him. Aziraphale was upset, angry really, more than he probably had any right to be and he couldn't quite pinpoint why. They were just eggs. He could go literally anywhere else to have them. Heavens, he could make them himself!

But a part of him wanted to know why the cook was doing this. So he went back (Tracy declined to come with) and made his order. He was very polite, and Anathema was very nice, and Warlock showed him a bit of his latest piece, and then the cook set down a plate of poached eggs and Aziraphale thought for a moment he might actually have blacked out.

He looked up at the cook, "Why are you doing this?"

"Doing what?"

And so he left.

And came back two days later.

He was beginning to think the teens had put some sort of tracker on him or his car because they always seemed to _know_ when he was going and so there they were. (It truly never occurred to him that being in a Waffle House at 1 am where the cook gives you free fries or cocoa if you can prove you did at least an hour of homework was exactly where they wanted to be.) And so he would walk in, say his hellos, go to his booth, Anathema would bring him his cocoa, and ask, very slowly, what he wanted to order.

"I think today I'll try the french toast."

"Oh! Really?"

"And a side of eggs."

"Nooo."

"A little runny, please."

"Why are you doing this?"

"Doing what, my dear?"

And he would wait. He would read a little. And then out would come the cook and set his plate down.

Sunny side up. Truly the worst kind of egg.

"Is there a bet I'm unaware of?"

"In the whole of the county?" Said the cook. "I don't doubt it."

And so he left.

And came back three days later.

It went on like this, each time Aziraphale getting more and more upset because he was clearly the butt of some joke which was fine, really, that wasn't _new_ , he just didn't understand _why_. It was one thing to mock his clothes, or his way of speaking, or his mannerisms, or even his Nokia cell phone but what was the punchline here?

He almost gave up the night the cook brought him a full omelette. It looked absolutely scrumptious but, as a point of principle, he hadn’t been eating any of the _incorrect eggs_ he’d been given up to that point. They didn’t go to waste, no, not with five growing teenagers lurking about nearby, so he didn’t feel too bad about it. But oh, the diced tomatoes and onion. The bits of bacon and the shredded cheese. There was a perfectly dalloped scoop of sour cream on one end and Aziraphale could feel his resolve slipping. But then he looked up at the outrageously smug smirk on the cook’s face, those eyes of his no doubt positively glimmering behind those sunglasses, and he sat up a little straighter.

“What is it you get out of this?”

“Out of making you food? A paycheck.”

When the cook disappeared back into the kitchen Aziraphale waved Warlock over. The teen slid into the booth, already dragging the oh-so-scrummy looking omelette toward him.

“Mr. Fell,” he asked, squeezing an impressive amount of ketchup over the food, “What do you get out of bothering Crowley?"

“Bothering? I'm not both--did you say ‘Crowley’?”

“Mhm, that's his name.”

“Oh. I do think I recall you mentioning that before. Hmm. Crowley.” He shook himself. “And at any rate I'm not _bothering_ him. I’m here as a customer and would like to have my food and he insists on bringing the wrong thing out. Surely he's the one bothering _me._ ”

“I mean,” Warlock shrugged. “Ok. Let's say he is. Why do you keep coming back?” He flipped his hair from his face with a practiced shake of his head and kept eating, eyes barely leaving Aziraphale as he waited for an answer.

Aziraphale had always liked Warlock; he was quiet and kept to himself mostly. But when you got him going about an interest, well, best settle in for a couple hours. Those were things Aziraphale understood and could appreciate. He looked down at his hands. “Hm. I don't rightly know. Curiosity, I suppose.” Aziraphale looked up to see Adam attempting to sit down next to Warlock.

“Come on," Adam said, "move over.”

“Ugh.”

“Let me get some of that,” he said, producing a fork from literally up his sleeve.

“What? No, s'mine.”

Adam sat back, “ _You’re_ gonna eat that _whole_ omelette?”

“I might.”

“No you're not, and it's gonna be cold by the time you realize that so lemme get some while it's still hot.”

Aziraphale watched the flail of limbs as Warlock attempted to defend his food. He hadn’t realized Warlock and Adam were...well _friends_. Adam had a group he could always be found with and while they weren't trouble makers per-se, they were certainly a rambunctious sort. Not exactly a crowd he could easily picture the quiet Warlock caught up in. 

He cleared his throat. The boys froze. “Why do _you_ think Crowley insists on doing this?”

“Dunno,” Warlock said, shoving a forkful into his mouth. 

“No one knows why Crowley does any of the things Crowley does,” said Adam.

“I've known him ten years and he still won't tell me the story behind the tattoo on his face.”

“The what?” asked Aziraphale, eyes wide.

“Haven't known him as long,” said Adam, “but I’m more annoying, and he hasn't told me either.”

“On his face?”

Warlock pointed the tip of his butter knife to his temple, “Right here. He's got a snake tat.”

“Oh my. Whatever for?”

Warlock sighed. 

“Mr. Fell,” Adam said with the sort of tone pointedly infused with infinite patience, “We just said we don't know.”

“Yes, alright. I just. I’ve never noticed it.”

“Too busy focusing on eggs,” said Warlock.

“Speaking of,” said Adam, stabbing at the plate.

And on it went.

Until that fateful night.

Aziraphale came in, said his hello's to Adam and Co., to Warlock at the counter, waved to Anathema who was helping another guest, and took his seat. A few minutes later she came over and set a cup of hot chocolate down.

“Oh thank you, my dear.”

“Are we doing this tonight?”

“I assure you, I have no idea what you mean. I saw an advert that you have a new dish!”

“Yeah, cheesecake stuffed strawberry french toast.”

“Ew,” Warlock said from the counter.

“That sounds decadent. I'll have that.”

“And...that's _it_?”

He couldn't help but note the hopeful tilt of her voice.

“And a side of eggs please, a little runny.”

She sighed. “You two are going to be the death of me.”

“Oh nonsense.”

Aziraphale had been thinking, all day really, about what he was going to do that night if Crowley brought him the wrong eggs. Because in truth he never went in expecting to be handed the wrong dish. No, he remained ever hopeful. But that night he thought he would finally ask Crowley what his issue was and they could be adults about it.

Best laid plans and all that.

Crowley came out and set down his french toast which really did look divine, and then a small plate, with two pieces of toast and a circle of cooked egg in the middle.

Well, that's hardly even egg at that point!

“Now look here,” said Aziraphale.

“Hmm?”

“Not only is this not what I asked for but it's barely even egg.”

“What're you talkin about, there's egg right there.”

“Yes but I daresay the egg-to-toast ratio--”

“The _egg-to-toast-ratio_?”

“Alright I've had quite enough of this. I keep coming in expecting, I don't know what, a modicum of respect I suppose and, I just, I should like to speak to your supervisor.”

“My supervisor?”

“Yes. Your supervisor. Thank you.”

“Alright.”

Crowley took a step forward, spun around with a dangerous whip of his head and turned back toward Aziraphale, leaning casually on the seat opposite him.

“'Sup?”

“I... _I just asked--_ ”

“To speak to a supervisor, yeah. That’s me.”

“Oh surely not!”

“‘Nathema!”

“Yeah?” came a weary voice from the back.

“Am I the on-duty supervisor Thursday nights?”

A heavy sigh followed by, “Unfortunately.”

“Oi!”

“This is ridiculous.”

“I don't know what you thought was gonna happen,” Crowley said with a laugh. “So if that's everything…?” He did another fancy spin and made his way back to the kitchen, laughing “supervisor” as he went. Warlock sat at the counter shaking his head with a smile. Adam and his crew were fairly losing their minds as Adam clacked away at his phone.

They were all just...laughing at him. Aziraphale could feel the sting of tears and without thinking grabbed the bit of eggy-toast, awkwardly shimmied out of his booth because there's no _graceful_ way to get out of those, and flung it at Crowley, who stood in the doorway to the kitchen, presumably talking to Anathema.

*

Aziraphale watched those honey-brown eyes snap from him to the toast on the counter.

The entire room fell deathly silent and suddenly Aziraphale’s hurt feelings didn't feel a valid reason to throw something at someone. Even if it was just a piece of toast.

“Did you just throw that at me?”

“I--”

“You threw _food_?”

“I'll admit that wasn't--”

“What?” he asked as he stalked around the counter, “Not bloody mature? Not a bright bloody idea? It's bad enough you won't eat the food I bring you--”

“You bring me the _wrong_ thing! _On purpose_! And it's not as though it goes to waste--”

“But you're perfectly happy to waste food by throwing it across the--”

“Oh for, it was a piece of _toast_. You have been absolutely horrendous to--””

“You want to see _horrendous_?” Crowley picked up the second piece of egg-toast and crumbled it into pieces, egg and bits of bread fluttering down...over Aziraphale's head. “There.”

There was egg...in his hair. Bits of it and bread on his shoulders.

He'll never be able to say what fully possessed him in that moment. He often thought, in the years to come, that he would have had a solid case for temporary insanity. Aziraphale grabbed the cheesecake stuffed strawberry french toast, the red, tacky syrup seeping between his fingers, and mushed the entire thing into Crowley's chest.

Which was a lot firmer than the man’s wiry frame would have led him to believe.

A shocked, deep gasp sucked all the air out of the room. He wasn't sure if it came from Crowley, himself, the rest of the patrons. It could have been the sound of time stopping as no one moved for what felt like a very long time. Crowley, mouth agape, stared down at his chest like he'd been mortally wounded. The red syrup splattered across his face and floor certainly didn't help the image any.

“There,” said Aziraphale.

Crowley looked up at him and Aziraphale had the wild notion he was going to die that night.

The rest was well and truly a blur. A flip through the pages of a book where every so often a picture might pop up, a header large enough to just read as it disappears from sight.

**French Toast CheeseCake Mess Smooshed into High School English Teacher's Face**

**Waffle House Cook Surprisingly Strong and Frustratingly Flexible**

**Strawberry Syrup WILL Stain That Sweater Vest Forevermore**

**Cook's Hat Manages to Stay On Despite A Brief Headlock**

**Confused & Slightly Aroused? The Surprising Effect of Wrestling in Breakfast Food**

Then they were being pushed apart, Anathema between them, who, by some form of witchcraft, was completely untouched by the mess that covered both men and the floor.

"Are you two _completely_ out of your minds?"

Aziraphale and Crowley both tried to stammer out an answer, pointing at the other, but were quickly silenced by a firm stomp of her heel.

"Rhetorical. Question."

Aziraphale looked down at his clothes, which were an absolute mess, he could feel something mushy slipping down the back of his collar, and let out a heavy sigh. 

"I'm...so sorry. I..let me help clean this, I--"

"Just get out," Crowley snapped.

“Yes I...of course.” He made his way out of the restaurant in a haze. The night air was a bit chilly but felt good, and soon he was sitting in his car, staring down at red tinted fingernails.

He wasn't sure how long he'd been sitting there before he heard a knock on his passenger side window. He rolled it down and Adam leaned over to look in.

“You okay, Mr. Fell?” he asked, as he handed him a wad of napkins.

“Yes. I’m. I’m sorry you had to see that.”

“You kidding? Waffle Dome is actually trending on twitter now.”

“I'm almost positive there's a version of our world where those words, in that order, make sense.”

Adam laughed.

“I'm afraid I’ve rather made a mess of things.”

“Yeah, little bit.”

Aziraphale saw Warlock come out and watched him make his way over.

“How’s it going?” he asked when he reached the car.

“Oh you know,” said Adam as he stood up, “eggmageddon.” 

Warlock snorted, then leaned in to look through the window. “Hey Mr. Fell.”

“Hello Warlock. I’ll be honest, I didn't know you two were friends.”

“Well,” Warlock shrugged. “I'm friends with Crowley, and Crowley's friends with everyone so…”

“Oh shut it,” said Adam. “We're friends. You came up with ‘Waffle Dome’, you're in for life now.”

“Oh,” said Warlock, face flat, “yaaaay.”

Adam punched his shoulder and Warlock winced, putting his hand to it, but Aziraphale could see the small smile.

“Well. I'm glad to see some of us are able to behave like proper humans. I should go apologize.”

“No,” said Warlock.

“What?”

“I mean yes. But not now. You should probably leave the parking lot, actually.”

“Oh dear. That bad?”

“Look, Mr. Fell, Crowley's really, honestly a good guy. I don’t know what underlying—“

“Tension?” provided Adam.

Warlock elbowed him, “ _Stuff_ you've both got going on that caused this to just--”

“Erupt?”

Warlock stood up and out of sight, hissing a “Will you _stop it_ ,” at Adam.

“Ok ok.”

His face reappeared in the window, “Anyway. Maybe in a couple days? That might go over better.”

‘Yes. You're probably right. Oh, you said you know Crowley fairly well?”

“Yeah?”

“What if I got him, some sort of gift? Like an olive branch?”

“I mean--”

“Oh oh oh,” Adam’s hands appeared on Warlock’s shoulders, fairly yanking him up right once more.

There was some fierce whispering that Aziraphale couldn’t really parse. He did hear the phrase ‘Waffle Dome’ once more, followed by ‘perfect ending’ and...whatever an 'otp' was. Wasn’t that part of a lyric…?

Both boys popped their heads back down into the window.

“Ok so,” said Adam. “Yeah Crowley uh, well he likes plants?”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” said Warlock. “So you could probably get him a plant and be okay.”

“Well I don't know anything about plants.”

“That's alright,” said Warlock, “Crowley knows tons.”

“Very well then, I'll go tomorrow.”

“Uh, I'd still say give it a few days before coming back here, Mr. Fell.”

“Yes, of course.”

Adam leaned full into the window and peered around the seat to the back of the car, “Are there _more books_ back there?”

“I haven't...quite gotten to moving them into my flat yet.”

“We've gotta get you a kindle or something,” Adam muttered.

“My books aren't kindling!”

“No,” said Warlock, “ _a_ kindle. It’s--”

“Oh is it one of those, uhm, oh I know this, one of those types of phones I’ve heard about? A blackberry or raspberry or something?”

“Where,” said Adam, leaning so far into the car, he was practically in it, “ _where_ have you heard of a blackberry? _Who_ is talking about blackberries?”

“People,” said Aziraphale, certain now that he’d not guess correctly what a Kindle was, “people in the know.”

“People in the--” Adam pushed out of the car and stood up. Aziraphale could see him tapping away on his phone.

Warlock tried to hide his smile with little success. Aziraphale thought suddenly that he couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Warlock smile so much.

“Anyway, we'll see you in class Mr. Fell.”

“Yes, of course, good night!”

As he wiped futilly at the dried syrup on his hands, he watched Warlock and Adam walk back to the restaurant, the sound of their voices echoing just slightly in the parking lot.

“Blackberries!” Adam said, throwing his hands up.

“Yeah, I know,” Warlock said. “I know.”

“Who is even, where, how? _Hoooow_?”

“I don't know, but you're gonna have a stroke at sixteen, breathe, will you?”

*  
  


Aziraphale sat in his car, the small gift bag in his lap. He'd parked around the back. There weren't really any parking spaces back there but he didn't want to risk Crowley seeing him if he was still truly upset. He thought perhaps he could leave the gift at the back door. He'd written a small apology card that he could tuck in.

But for some reason he couldn't quite get _out_ of the car.

He'd spent a lot of time thinking about the last few weeks as he tried to find the perfect apology plant. Warlock was right. He 'd been so focused on why Crowley was taunting him, he didn't really have any answer for why he kept coming back. He had to admit, it _was_ something he looked forward to. Not the teasing or the wrong eggs, not that. But he rather liked going in and seeing the teens, and seeing Anathema, he liked the stillness as he sipped his cocoa and waited for his food. And he really did hope that Crowley would give him the right food for once and yet...

And yet he didn't.

And yet Aziraphale kept going back.

There's some awfully trite saying about insanity and repeated actions.

Well, clearly the enjoyable moments weren't outweighing the bad ones, his actions were proof of that. He threw food at the man! What was he, some grade school bully? Absolutely ridiculous.

He turned the car off and sat in the sudden silence. He could do this. It was a simple apology, much owed, and he was, despite his recent behavior, an adult.

Aziraphale opened the car door and just as he stepped out, the back door of the restaurant swung open. Aziraphale stood frozen as Crowley came out, carrying two large bags of garbage. He watched him walk down to the dumpster, heft them in with practiced ease, and turn to come back, freezing himself when he saw Aziraphale.

He scoffed and headed to the restaurant.

Aziraphale scrambled, slamming his car door perhaps harder than necessary in his haste, “Wait, wait!”

Crowley stopped, leaning against the wall beside the back door as he lit a cigarette. “I'm on my break and I don't want to deal with your shit right now so just--”

“I came to apologize.”

He sighed, took a drag and blew it out. It smelled like cloves, how odd.

“Alright. Apology accepted, go away.”

“Oh. Yes of course. Um, it's just. I also got you something. An, you know, olive branch of sorts.” He held up the small white gift bag.

Crowley pulled his glasses down to peer at it and then took them off completely, stuffing them in a pocket on his apron. “You went to Audrey's.”

“You're familiar?”

He scoffed, “I know every plant shop, flower shop, or nursery in a twenty mile radius.”

“Oh. Is Audrey's good?”

He shrugged, “Could do worse.”

“It's not much. I wasn't sure what _sort_ of plants you liked…”

“Who told you I liked 'em to begin with?”

“The boys. That is I mean, Warlock and--”

“Adam, yeah.”

Aziraphale nodded. He kept running his fingers over the twine of the bag handle, twisting it this way and that. Just give him the bag and go back to the car.

Crowley let out another deep, deep sigh, dropping his cigarette to the ground and crushing it under his foot. One hand reached up, sliding the cap off his head and to Aziraphale's infinite surprise, a wave of shoulder length red hair tumbled down. The cap got shoved in the same pocket with his glasses as he tousled his hair, pulling it over to one side. There was one, dim light bulb above the back door. It didn't do much to light the area but right then it seemed like a spotlight over Crowley. Turning that hair into something alive and shimmering, those honey-brown eyes were practically gold, and, this close, Aziraphale could see the lines of his face. The slight crow's feet at the corners of his eyes. The laugh lines around his mouth. The angle of his jaw. There was that snake tattoo as well. It was small and delicate. He wanted to touch it.

“Well?” Crowley asked.

“Beautiful,” Aziraphale breathed.

“I wouldn't know, you haven't given it to me yet.”

“What?”

The cook's eyebrows shot up expectantly and that was when Aziraphale realized his hand was outstretched, fingers wiggling, for the gift bag.

“Oh! Oh right.” He held out the bag. Unbelievable. He stood there gawking at the cook as if they hadn't had a near fist fight just a few days prior.

Crowley pulled out the bits of tissue paper, which, unsurprisingly, also went in his apron pocket. Aziraphale half wondered what would be found in its depths. He rummaged in the bag and slowly pulled out the pear shaped glass. It fit in his hand, a small succulent tucked inside among little pebbles and whatever else made up those tiny terrariums. Crowley turned it this way and that, holding it up by his fingertips.

“Hello there,” he said quietly. “You're just a little thing aren't you?”

Aziraphale didn't think he'd ever get the image of Crowley's profile, fire hair tousled, a small small at the corners of his mouth, as he whispered gently to a small plant, out of his head and he didn't think he wanted to.

He didn't want to break the spell but if he didn't _say_ something he was likely to _do_ something. Something incredibly stupid like reach out and run his fingers through that hair.

“Is, uh, do you like it?"

Crowley put the plant back in the bag with a little 'hmm'. “I do,” he said. “Been meaning to start a new terrarium. She'll do nicely.”

“Oh, wonderful.”

“Warlock said you were actually usually very nice.”

Aziraphale fiddled with his cufflinks, “Ah yes. I don't, I don't really have an excuse for my behavior. I can only apologize.”

“‘Pology accepted. I've gotta get back in so…”

“Right! sorry to keep you.”

Crowley lingered a moment, as though there was something else he wanted to say, then opened the door and was already half in when Aziraphale spluttered. “Can I ask? Why... _did_ you keep doing this?”

He shrugged, “Ehhh. I was...it was just…”

“A joke.” Aziraphale looked down at the ground. “Right.”

“I mean. I wasn't. It wasn't, y'know, personal or, or I don’t know, I wasn’t mocking--”

“You were,” Aziraphale said. “That's what it was. It's fine, it’s not,” he let out a quiet little laugh, “I don't know if you've noticed but I don't quite fit in, well, anywhere. Being made fun of is something I've gotten used to. It’s nothing new.”

“Wha, no I, I didn't mean it like, like _that_ I--”

Aziraphale raised a hand, “I promise you, my dear. It's nothing. I'm glad you like the gift. Good night.”

Aziraphale made his way back to his car, quietly getting in and pulling out of the driveway. He wasn't sure what answer he expected. What would've made it okay. That he and Anathema had a bet going to see how many different eggs he could bring out? That the kids dared him? Something, he supposed, other than ‘taunting you was entertaining in the moment’.

He pushed a cassette into the player and tried to focus on the sounds of the piano.

*

Crowley slammed the door shut behind him.

“What happened?” Anathema asked, barely looking up from pouring coffee into a few mugs. “Was it the raccoon again? You know he does this just to--”

“No it wasn't' the bloody raccoon.” He held up the bag, “It was the teacher! He came to apologize and he went to _Audrey’s_ for the gift.”

“Ooo,” said Anathema. “That's not cheap.”

“No, it's not, but what's worse is he thought, he thought I was mocking him for the sake of mocking him.”

“Crowley,” said Anathema slowly, “how else did you _possibly_ think any of this would've been interpreted?”

“Ugh,” he groaned. He pushed past her and out to the diner. “Oi, kid.”

Warlock looked up from his journal just as Crowley plopped the gift bag down.

“ _Audrey's_?”

“I didn't tell him to go there. We just said you liked plants.”

Adam appeared, as Adam often did, right beside Warlock, “Oooo Audrey's?"

“Yes,” said Crowley, “bloody Audrey’s.”

“Hey, we just said plants.”

“Ugh. He thinks I, ugh, nevermind. I have to get him something in return. What does this...what’s his name?”

“Mr. Fell?” said Warlock.

“Aziraphale,” said Adam.

“Aziraphale,” echoed Crowley. “Aziraphale.” He said it like he was testing the weight of it. He thought he rather liked how it felt in his mouth. “Alright,” he said, “what does this Aziraphale like?”

He watched Warlock and Adam exchange glances.

“Could get him a book,” said Adam. “He loves reading.”

“Yeah, but is there a book Mr. Fell doesn’t already own?”

“If there _is_ ,” said Adam slowly, eyes locked on Warlock, “then Crowley would probably find it in the _shop on sixth_.”

Warlock blinked then, “Oh! Yeah! That's.” He nodded, turning to Crowley, “The shop on sixth. Only, be sure to go on Tuesday.”

“Or Thursday,” said Adam.

“Right. Tuesday or Thursday. After 4pm.”

“After four?” asked Crowley. “I’ll barely have enough time to get here. Why after four?”

“Uhh,” Adam stammered, turning to Warlock.

“Because it's less crowded then,” said Warlock. “Slowest hours, right before close. You can get help and get out and get here.”

“Right,” said Adam. “What he said.”

“Okay,” said Crowley.

“Also we can go with you,” said Adam.

“We can?” asked Warlock.

“Yeah, just to make sure you find the place.”

Warlock stared at Adam with a frown, and Adam just smiled back.

“Great”,” said Crowley, too preoccupied in his head with making this _right_ to even attempt to figure out what secret conversation was happening between the boys in front of him. “Thursday. We'll go, get a book and, shit, how am I gonna, you have classes with him right? One of you two can pass it along.”

“Uh--”

“Sure!” said Adam. “Who knows, maybe he'll come back here.”

Crowley shook his head, running his finger along the embossed lettering on the bag. “Nah, I ruined that.”

*

The shop wasn’t hard to find at all, it turned out. Crowley suspected the boys coming with him had more to do with whatever Adam was clacking into his phone and showing Warlock than any desire to be helpful. It was, also, decidedly more crowded and busy than any shop had any right to be an hour before close, least of all a _book_ shop. What sort of world-ending literary emergencies were happening on a Thursday afternoon to warrant so many people? It was _three stories_ of madness.

“Alright,” he turned to the boys, “where should I start?”

“Help desk?” suggested Adam with a shrug.

“You--that’s what _you’re_ here for! You know him, you’ll be able to tell me what he’ll like.”

“He likes historical fiction,” said Warlock.

“Good, great, where’s that?”

“Ask the Help Desk,” said Adam.

Crowley groaned, “Useless. Absolutely useless.” He weaved around table displays of “Bookclub Reads” and editions of classic literature with fancy golden covers, and made his way toward the the back, where a rectangle sign hung from the ceiling with calligraphic letters proclaiming “Help Desk”.

It was empty.

“Oh for…”

Someone shuffled behind the desk, grabbed a few books and a couple bags and started to shuffle away again.

“‘Scuse me, can I--”

“So sorry, I’m helping another customer. Feel free to ring the bell though.”

Crowley looked down at the tiny golden bell on the counter. He gave it an annoyed shake, the tinny sound barely rising above the noise around him.

He heard a faint, “Just a moment!” but couldn’t really tell where it came from.

Then, from around a bookcase, appeared Aziraphale. He was smiling at someone, gently handing them a book. Crowley stared. He hadn’t seen Aziraphale smile before. Not like that. He also hadn’t realized how unflattering the fluorescents of the restaurant were, or maybe it was just the man came to life around books, who knew, but he seemed to glow. His hair looked so soft and fluffy, did it always look like that? He’d just crumbled toast into it and for the life of him couldn’t remember it being that soft. The creams of his clothes and the weave of the tartan in his bowtie, it was fascinating how something so simple made him stand out in the best way. A bloody light at the end of the tunnel. He looked so...soft.

Crowley realized with a slight flush that he’d grappled with the man and he was also _very_ strong.

Aziraphale waved goodbye to the customer and turned in Crowley's direction, “Did someone ring--oh. Hello.”

There were many, many things that Crowley could have said. He could have gone with something simple. “Hello” perhaps. Can’t go wrong with “hello”. He could have added a little flair, a “Hello, how are you?” That would have also been an appropriate reaction. He could have even stammered out an incoherent proclamation of how beautiful Aziraphale was and how sorry _he_ was and would he mind at all marrying him, he promises he won’t smell like grease forever. A little less appropriate but still something better than the undignified sputter that came out of his mouth, immediately followed by an accusatory, “What are _you_ doing here?”

“I work here,” Aziraphale said simply. “Well, volunteer. Sometimes. I’m friends with the owner.” He blinked, “What are _you_ doing here?”

“I can book!”

Aziraphale blinked again.

“Read,” he muttered. “I can, I can read. Ugh, I was...looking for a gift.”

“Ah. Well.” Aziraphale smoothed his hands down the front of his vest, looking around the shop. No doubt for an exit plan Crowley thought miserably. “I can help you with that.”

“What? No, you can’t pick your own gift.”

“It’s for me?”

“Yeah, cause, you know, olive plant--leaf--branch! Olive...olive branch.” What in god’s name was happening to his words? To his brain? He glanced around him but miraculously the boys had disappeared, leaving him to drown in this shallow pool of embarrassment.

“Do you...have any idea where to start?”

“Not really.”

“Ah. Why don’t I just show you around then? Could point things out, just casually.”

Crowley shoved his hands into his pockets, “...fine.”

He followed behind Aziraphale as he headed up a flight of spiral stairs and to the second floor. It was blessedly less crowded up there.

“I should let you know if it’s a collector’s edition I probably have it.”

“Collector’s edition of what?”

“Oh…” he shrugged gently. How did shoulders that broad move so subtly? “Anything, really.”

“Right.”

They meandered through bookcases, around display tables. Crowley stopped at one, “What about, well you supervise that writer’s club, the one Warlock’s in. You writer types like journals right?”

“Yes, but I don’t write. Really I just sort of proofread and provide a sounding board for the kids. They can already write circles around me, truth be told.”

“Oh.”

They kept walking.

Crowley pointed to a display, “Bookmarks?”

“Don’t use them.”

“Oh for--you don’t strike me as the dog-earring type.”

“Heavens no! I simply remember the page number.”

“What if you don’t get back to it for a bit?”

“I...continue to remember it? To be honest I haven’t got much else going on up there, so…”

Crowley laughed before he could stop himself and Aziraphale smiled at the floor.

“Oh!” He darted over to another display. “Bookends! If you’ve got as many books as you’re saying, what about bookends?”

Aziraphale frowned at the set Crowley was holding in his hands. “Hmm. I don’t know where I’d put them.”

“At the...at the end of books, Aziraphale.” Oh he did like saying his name. “It’s in the title.”

“Yes, but why would I put a bookend where another book could go?”

Crowley threw his head back, letting out a dramatic groan, “You are _impossible_ to shop for.”

“So I’ve been told,” he said with a smile.

They kept walking.

“Why are you doing this?” Aziraphale asked quietly, not looking at him.

“S’like I said, olive branch.”

“Yes. But...technically I already did that with the, well, literal plant I gave you. And you accepted it. So, I think that part’s done.”

“I just,” he chewed on his lip. “I just didn’t want you thinking that I was making fun of you.”

“Oh! Well like I said, that’s really old hat at this po--”

“Well it shouldn’t be,” he snapped. They’d walked themselves into a desolate aisle, thank goodness. It made it easier for Crowley to get the words out. “It shouldn’t be and I’m an ass for adding to it. I’m sorry. I really am. You’re nice. And kind. Much kinder than you had any right to be with me, than I deserved, practically a bloody angel. I didn’t, I didn’t even really think you were, y’know, _upset_ . I thought it was a lark. And you kept coming back. And you looked, y’know, cutewhenyou’reflustered and I didn’t really know how to say _that_ so I just, kept, bringing the wrong eggs like an idiot.”

The silence lingered before Aziraphale breathed out a little, “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

More silence. Crowley decided to focus on committing the lines of the floorboards beneath him to memory and hoped eventually Aziraphale would walk away and the store would close and then he could disintegrate in peace.

“I suppose,” Aziraphale said softly, “you could’ve spelled it out in the ketchup.”

Crowley looked up at him, at the small smile on his lips, and yelled “Fuck!” as loud as his body would let him. Because Aziraphale was right; that probably would have been a better course of action.

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale glanced around.

“You’re so bloody clever, then? Just a haphazard ‘u r cute’ over your omelette?”

“When you say ‘you’ you do mean spelled out, not just--”

“Oh nooo. Just the letter ‘u’. And the letter ‘r’. In fact, the ‘r’ is _backwards_.”

“Oh lord.”

“And ‘cute’ is spelled ‘k’--”

“Oh, no.”

“Y.”

“Please stop.”

“O-o-t.”

“That’s the making of a horror movie.”

Crowley laughed. And then said perhaps his smoothest attempt at conversation that entire month, “Do you like movies? Or is it printed word only?”

“No, no. I enjoy an evening at the cinema.”

“An _evening_ as the cin-e-ma,” he repeated, looking up at the ceiling. He realized a second too late that might be too teasing for Aziraphale to feel comfortable with but when he looked over he was smiling.

“Popcorn too base for your refined palette?”

“Not at all. In fact, sometimes I’ll even mix chocolates in.”

“You _what_?”

“Yes, yes, let’s not overreact.”

“That’s practically vulgar for you, angel.” The pet name came out before he could think better of it. “S-sorry, I don't know why--”

“It’s alright,” Aziraphale said. “I like it.”

The store’s intercom crackled, “We close at 5,” said a bored voice. “It’s almost 5. It’s 5 to 5 actually, so get to the register.”

“Wait is it really?” Crowley fished his phone out of his pocket. “Bloody hell I’ve got to get to work. Uh.” His shoulders sank, “I didn’t. I still don’t have a gift for you.”

“Nonsense. A nice stroll and a conversation, this was a lovely gift.”

“Really?”

“Certainly.”

“Alright. I. Um.” This was the part in every movie he’d ever seen in any cin-e-ma where he asked for Aziraphale’s number. Or offered his. Or made a comment about seeing him soon. He could’ve invited him to the restaurant for some proper eggs. He could have offered to come back to the bookshop some time. What he said was, “‘Kay. Bye.” And stumbled away.

*

A week later, or maybe it was two...it could have been the next day, Crowley certainly couldn't tell. He'd been in a sort of fog since leaving the book shop. Why hadn't he asked for his number? Sure they'd had a rough...well. A rough start was putting it mild to the point of almost lying. But Aziraphale hadn't left him standing there in the middle of the bookshop after admitting he was too stupid to think of ketchup so that was something. Christ on a cracker, how did he not think of ketchup? 

Crowley let out a sigh and flipped the pancakes in front of him.

"Hey," Anathema said.

"What?"

“He's here. He's back.”

He stopped. Every muscle in his body seemed to tense up and then stay that way. He didn't look up from the pancakes.

“Did you hear me?”

“Hrrrn.”

“Crowley!”

“Did he order?” asked someone in a high pitched squeak. Surely it wasn't Crowley. He had a bit more dignity than that. ...probably.

“Yeah, cup of tea. Annnnd...a slice of angel's food cake.”

“Oh. _Oh!_ ”

“Does that mean something?”

His brain, or maybe his heart, returned full motor functions to the rest of him and he tossed the spatula aside, grabbing a small plate and heading to the fridge with the cakes. “It might,” he said.

“No, Crowley no,” Anathema said as she saw what he was plating. “Are you kidding me?”

“No it's ok, it'll work this time. I'm sure of it.”

“What's to work? You're gonna undo--”

But he wasn't listening and was already out the door. And oh, there he was. Sitting at his usual booth, fiddling with his cufflinks. and yes, his hair _did_ look just as soft as it had in the book shop.

Crowley stood there, just out of sight, staring at the back of his head, long enough for just about everyone in the diner _but_ Aziraphale to notice. Fortunately that consisted only of Anathema and the kids, but it was enough to feel all their eyes on him. He took a deep breath and sauntered over to the table.

He set down the cup of tea first.

“Oh! Thank you, my dear.”

My dear. Had he called him that before? Was that new? It felt new. Crowley set down the plate with the cake. And waited. 

“Hmm,” said Aziraphale, staring down at the slice devils' food cake. “This doesn't seem to be quite what I ordered.”

“Oh nooo,” said Crowley, having practiced the words over and over in his head. “I seem to have gotten your order wrong.” He slid into the opposite seat, “Let me make it up to you.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“Dinner. N-not here, obviously. At a proper restaurant.”

Aziraphale smiled. There was a moment of wonderful quiet, charged with just a little bit of electricity and quite a bit of hope.

And then Pepper stood up among her friends and yelled, very loudly, “YEAH! GET IT, MR. FELL!”

“Good lord,” said Aziraphale.

“Definitely _not here,”_ muttered Crowley. He wondered if his face was as red as Aziraphale's.

“Dinner sounds lovely,” he said.

“Really?”

“Did you think I would say no?”

“Well…” he gestured to the cake, “it's not exactly the ketchup note, I know you had your heart set on that.”

He laughed. It was a wonderful sound. And Crowley thought he ought to get up and pretend to work or he was likely to just sit there and watch this angel. Watch him drink his tea, eat his cake, watch him fiddle with his cufflinks. Didn't matter so long as he got to be there.

“Here, I'll get you what you actually asked for this time.” He reached for the plate but Aziraphale gently slid it closer to him.

“No, no,” he said. “I think it's high time I had a taste of what you've been offering.”

Crowley _knew_ his face was red then, a choked 'ngk' being the only thing that managed to come out of him.

*

The dinner was lovely. All of the dinners were. As were the lunches and the coffees and the breakfasts. But their best meals, the ones that instantly came with a feeling of deep seated contentment and a smirk, were when they went out to a local diner, sat in a booth with its cracked vinyl covers and dim lighting, and ordered eggs, just a little runny, and a slice of devil's food cake.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I mentioned to a few people that I'd been kicking around the idea for an epilogue and of course they were like DO IT. And so I did. Updated the tags as well.  
> ALSO, if you fell like it, find me on twitter @tfw_thevoid and yell at me about egg to toast ratios <3.

~Epilogue~

  
  
It'd been almost a full hour since Crowley had essentially proposed with cake, which, if Adam was being honest, was probably the best way to propose to Mr. Fell. He tossed his phone onto the table, eyes a little strained from responding to replies to his tweets asking everything from when the wedding would be to did he have more pics of the sexy redhead covered in cake. Then there were his classmates plotting what sort of egg-themed greeting they could prepare for Mr. Fell the next day in class. When he got not one but _five_ suggestions for hard boiled eggs that were actually cakes he knew it was time to mute the thread and let them all yell into the void.

At least the gifs had been fun for a while. Maybe one day he'd show Crowley the one of him yanking his glasses off.

Adam looked over to the counter where Warlock sat, tapping his pen against his notebook, and stealing glances over his shoulder at Crowley and Mr. Fell. He followed Warlock’s gaze to the couple, but everything seemed to be going smoothly. So why did Warlock look so tense?

He climbed out of the booth, his foot catching on the strap to Brian's backpack and nearly sending him face first to the floor.

"Smooth," Pepper said.

"Hey, if I die I don't have to do my maths sooo."

"Actually," said Wensleydale, "if you die none of us have to do our maths cause we'll be grieving."

"See?" said Adam, as he shook his foot free, "It's all for you."

"Would my bag be considered a murder weapon?" asked Brian.

Leaving his friends to discuss the particulars of his hypothetical sacrificial death, Adam slid onto the seat next to Warlock. "What're you brooding about?" 

"I'm not brooding."

"You're brooding. You brood. It's fine, it's part of this whole," he waved his hand in a circle, "thing you've got going for you." Adam immediately clenched his teeth so tight he thought they might crack. Why had he said it that way? "Going for you" what was he thinking, that was way too obvious.

Warlock sighed and stole another glance at the booth with the love-struck couple.

"Seriously," Adam said, "what's wrong?"

"I...look at them. They look really happy. Finally."

"Yeah, thanks to us."

"But they're also like, what, fifty? I don't want to wait until I'm old and gross and getting into fights with Waffle House cooks to y'know..." He looked at Adam, chewing his lip, and then back down at his journal.

Adam swallowed. He looked from Warlock's bowed head, that mop he called hair blocking the view of his actual face, and over to Crowley and Mr. Fell. "Uh," he said, "so...don't? Wait?"

"Oh wow, I hadn't considered that. Thank you."

Wonderful. Excellent advice. Where were _his_ meddling side characters to help nudge him and the cute boy who wrote amazing short stories together?

"It's not...hard.” Adam said, “Not really."

"Maybe not for _you_. You’re all, out there."

"Out there?"

"I mean, you have all those friends--"

"They're your friends too."

"And you know how to work social media, and talk to people there, and you were the mastermind for pushing these two together, you're really confident and just, do what you do."

Oh. That kind of _out_ there.

"And I'm...that's not me. I can't just," he looked over at Adam, his hands clenched tight on his pen, "I can't just say that I...want to...I can't ask if ....hnn." He turned back to his journal with a groan.

Right.

Okay.

He was the confident one. He didn’t feel like the confident one. The journal he'd bought for Warlock when they'd finished tailing Crowley in the bookshop still sat at the bottom of his backpack. He'd been wearing long sleeves all week to hide the scrunchie on his wrist. The scrunchie that Warlock had left on the counter last week that he hadn't quite worked up the nerve to give back. He didn't know how to do that. Here's your scrunchie, it's plain and black and you probably have a million but it’s yours and I saw it and grabbed it and it smells a bit like you which isn't a bad thing at all it's probably why I haven't returned it yet that's not weird right?

The confident one. He could fake that. He glanced at Crowley and Mr. Fell. He _would_ fake it if it meant that he could have _that_ sooner than 'maybe in a few decades'.

"Want to see a movie this weekend?" He forced the words out, clenched his teeth, and focused on a point just to the right of Warlock's head. A hideous photo of a tractor or something off on the wall at the other end of the diner.

"Oh," Warlock said. "Uh. Yeah?"

"Well you sound super interested."

"I am! No I-I am. I-is-um. In a...a...like as f-fr--"

"In a gay way, Warlock. Homo intended. I'm asking you out."

He squeaked a little "oh" and looked back at his journal. God it was adorable.

"Was that chipmunk in your throat saying 'yes' oooor?"

He tried to swallow his laugh and failed. Adam resolved then and there to give him back the damn scrunchie cause otherwise he was never going to see that smile of his through his blasted hair.

"Y-yeah, it's a. Yes. Mhm."

"Good."

Warlock let out a deep breath, one he'd probably been holding for half the conversation, and practically deflated. "How are you so straightforward about these things?"

"Well," said Adam, leaning over to bump his shoulder against Warlock's, "it's the only straight thing about me so."

He laughed, out loud, and Adam wanted to bottle it up, save it for rainy days. “Come sit with the rest of us. I’ll show you the gif someone made of Crowley.”

“Does he know?” Warlock whispered.

“‘Course not, I’m not mad.”

“He’s going to kill you when he finds out.”

“Nope,” Adam said as he hopped down from his seat. “Turns out I’m sacrificing myself for the greater good to free our fellow students from the oppressive force of maths.”

Warlock pursed his lips. “You’re...just…”

“Such a handsome beast? I know. You’re very lucky. Come on, we’ve still got some fries left.”

It wasn’t eggs. And the fries were quite cold. And neither boy had any need to write secret messages in ketchup because they could simply text them to each other while sitting side-by-side, their knees gently touching under the table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :O
> 
> This fic is getting way more traction than I ever thought possible! I just want to thank all of y'all for your kind comments and love of this silly little AU! I ALSO want to let y'all know that...it Ain't Over Yet. There's a metafic coming AND a podfic because there's like two dozen of us that are lowkey obsessed and that's FINE. ...probably.  
> Follow me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/tfw_thevoid) for Waffle Omens updates if you like! (Also feel free to @ me to let me know that's why you're there lol)  
> Follow me on [tumblr](https://kreauxlighe.tumblr.com/)
> 
> **ART INSPIRED BY THIS FIC**   
>  [A cover was made!!](https://goodomensficrecommendations.tumblr.com/post/625475793353637888/it-aint-over-easy-chapter-1)   
>  [morosexual-aziraphale on tumblr did this AMAZING FANART AAHHHHH](https://morosexual-aziraphale.tumblr.com/post/627345907022807040/a-couple-scribbly-pencil-doodles-from-this)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [(It Ain't) Over Easy - Podfic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27599402) by [ChubbyHornedEquine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChubbyHornedEquine/pseuds/ChubbyHornedEquine)




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